


Never Be the Same Again

by sophiahelix



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-01
Updated: 2001-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Survive," I thought. And I did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Be the Same Again

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jintian for the beta.

"When you look in the mirror,  
wish you were somebody else,  
just a perfect reflection,  
you and no one else..."

\----

I'm running shaking hands over my body, smoothing and checking and reassuring. I'm all here. Mostly.

The clothes I was wearing two years ago, the Prada suit, Manolo heels, and leather Coach handbag, have long since disappeared, of course. Probably burned them, the sons of bitches. I have no ID, no money, no keys. No life. They've stripped me down again, and I have no choice but to take what they give me.

I've always taken.

Right now I pick up the pile of clothes he's left on the motel bed and untie the stained robe I'm wearing. He stares for a moment as the robe falls open, then turns on his heel and leaves the room without a word. If I'd ever been allowed the luxury of a sense of humor, I'd laugh. He's seen worse than my wasted nudity.

Being left alone, even if I know he's lurking on the balcony, inspires me to do something I haven't done, haven't even thought of in more than a year. I'd like to take a bath.

I drop the robe on the floor and carry my new clothes into the bathroom, placing them with care on the closed toilet. It's been a long time since I've had anything of my own to be careful of. I haven't even belonged to myself since they took me.

I push down the plug and start running hot water, as hot as the tap will go. I can't remember the last time I was really warm. I always seemed to be missing some part of my clothing on the base, whether it was my shirt as they injected my arms weekly, my pants as they probed inside of me, or the gown I learned to tie and untie in seconds as they hustled me from sleep room to operating room and back again.

There's not even an inch of water in the bottom of the tub but I climb in anyway, wincing at the welcome pain of the water. The water blackens immediately, and I realize I'm going to have to shower first if I don't want to soak in my own filth. They were pretty good at hosing me down regularly on the base -- wouldn't want them to catch anything from a subject like me -- but ever since my tests were stopped a month ago they've almost forgotten to feed me, let alone bathe me.

I let the water drain from the tub and start the shower. The spray feels like burning needles that sear my flesh as I

_as they change the IV bag and I see that disgusting black contagion slide down the tube and into my blue skin, and I writhe, I scream, but their needles are in me and I feel the worms shiver and squirm through me into my head, my head, and all I see is black light, black_

I gasp, shuddering, and my own hand comes up to slap myself before I can stop it. I will myself to feel this pain now, here, to forget what it was before. There is always pain, but dear god, let it be of my own making.

I reach for the tiny bottle of shampoo on the sink counter.

I can't believe I remember how to do this, squeezing the thin drizzle of amber liquid into my hand, both hands rubbing it my hair and scalp. My poor hair, which hasn't seen shampoo in years, has grown shaggy and longer than I like it, halfway down my back. It's surprising any of it's left at all, given my excellent nutrition of IV drips and the occasional bowl of oatmeal-resembling substance. I rub hard, massaging my scalp, wishing for the special dandruff shampoo I used to have smuggled in from my hairdresser in Paris. Although a flaky scalp has been the least of my worries lately.

Rinsing the shampoo out, I fumble and find conditioner, relishing the soft creamy pat of it in my hand. I work it through the knots as best I can, but scissors will probably be needed for some of the ones in back. The magic counter produces a sewing kit with a microscopic pair, and, blessing the good people of Ramada Inn, I pull the plastic packet open with slippery fingers.

Time slows to heated water and tiny blades searching through my hair as I give myself the worst haircut of my life. I don't care what it looks like, as long as I can run a comb through it later. Clumps of blonde hair collect on the bottom of the tub, gritty under my feet, and are washed down the drain, where they will probably clog it. Ask me if I care.

The task finished, I toss the scissors on the floor and finish my conditioning job. This coming back to life is going to take some work, but I'm up for the challenge. Aren't I always?

I scuff the last of the hair down the drain with my foot, then turn off the shower head, push down the plug, and sit down. The water rises around me, hot steam clouding my vision, and I am dangerously close to falling asleep. That's right, survive hell only to drown in a motel tub. How fitting.

I hate the anger I hear in my head, the bitterness which has claimed me. I am always the stoic one, the untouched, the woman with nothing to gain or lose. When they assigned me to Special Rep Masey to lead Mulder through their hoops, I couldn't have asked for anything better. I loved dressing in the morning, smoothing the perfectly pressed suit down over my hips, practicing my lines in the mirror with deadpan calm. It isn't that I enjoy having power over men, as some have cattily claimed. It's that I enjoy having power over everyone.

I'm not a fool. Power equals comfort and safety. Beauty equals power. It isn't hard to figure out. Don't get the wrong idea, though. I sell promises, not my body.

At least, I didn't sell it until they stopped giving and started taking.

Is it steam or blood that heats my cheeks as the memories roll over me in heavy thick waves? Yes, I begged, shamelessly. Yes, I traded on what I had, until there wasn't a man in the hospital who could look me in the eye as he passed. The first few months I lived in relative comfort, safe from the tests, meals three times a day and a tiny separate chamber off the main sleep room. I didn't try to pretend there wasn't an ulterior motive to giving me a private bed.

So I let them fuck me, day and night, let them know with eyes and hips I was up to whatever they wanted. You can't imagine what sick fantasies go through the minds of the men who run the world. I did it in bathrooms, chained, and on operating tables, listening to the moans and screams of other subjects in the room. I let them fuck me, the woman who had tormented them all. I had no power in their smoky club rooms, but I knew they all wanted me. That was my secret, what kept me alive through the bullshit and confusion of those years before it all went to hell. Simple lust, basic man-woman desire. Look at any beautiful woman with power and tell me it isn't true.

I guess it must have worn thin, eventually. I worked my way down, from the heavy-set, tight-lipped men with Rolexes who took me to private rooms on the top floor of the hospital my first month there, through a series of doctors and technicians who let me shuffle off to the bathroom rather than going with the orderlies, and finally I found myself in a closet with the janitor who promised to let me sneak down to the kitchen afterwards.

I was a one trick woman, to my disgust.

By the time I discovered that all they wanted was the rush of humiliating the proud beauty of their dreams, I was a shriveled wreck, a woman who fucked for food between bouts of torture. It was too late to save my dignity, but maybe I could save myself.

"Survive," I thought. And I did.

I'm shivering uncontrollably now, though the water is scalding and steam is so thick I can hardly see. I remember one doctor, a man with the whitest eyelashes I've ever seen, who seemed to derive equal pleasure from fucking me against a cabinet and drawing spinal fluid from my back. He had the same look in his eyes both times as he pressed into me slowly, watching my eyes grow wide from the pain, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth.

Tears slide down my cheeks but I'm not crying. A sob lurches in my throat but I don't do that, I don't let anything show because no one cares about me but me and self-pity is something I can't afford.

I tried to make someone pity me once. He was young and pale and sharp-nosed but he had his father's hard will in his eyes. I was stupid and delirious and for an hour I thought that somehow we would leave the base together.

I should have known when I saw the coldness in Mulder's eyes that no one could ever really care about me. Mulder came close, once, his eyes drawn to my lips and his mouth almost following in the darkness of my apartment. But he saved himself from throwing love away on me, and he was the last to come close to it.

Alex never cared, no matter what he or I did, and I don't know why I expected him to. If he couldn't love me when I was strong and beautiful, he would have despised me when I was hideous and broken. I think he did. We crashed into each other while still ten feet apart. I tried to burn myself into the corridor wall when his gaze swept over me once, then flicked away. Spender spoke to him and I huddled and cringed as I'd learned to in the past year, and waited for doom and destiny to befall me.

Instead, they left me behind again, simple as that.

I stand up, water sluicing down my body, sloshing over the rim of the tub. I turn the tap off hastily, and reach for the coarse white towel hanging over the toilet. I don't need this right now. Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine, I repeat, and bite the inside of my cheek until I taste sour iron.

I lean over and wrap the towel around my head turban-style, careful not to twist it too tight and damage my hair. I grab another thin towel and softly pat myself dry. My elbows and knees are ashy as hell. There is, of course, a tiny bottle of lotion on the counter, and I slather the pale yellow cream all over my body, smelling of cloying vanilla. There is hair in places on my body I forgot hair grew. I'm not asking him for a razor.

The moment of truth; I inspect the clothes he left for me. Underwear serviceable white cotton, fine. The bra is Agent Provacateur, white silk, my size. I frown. A soft blue cashmere pullover, BCBG. White linen lounge pants, Jil Sanders. Blue kitten-heeled Jimmy Choo mules. All perfect fits. All mine.

Another shudder runs up my back and goosebumps cover my skin as I see him in my Rosslyn penthouse, rifling through my drawers in search of my clothing. No, not rifling, searching carefully, matching colors and styles and whatever the current fashions are.

Which means they haven't sold or destroyed all my belongings. Which means they had a use for them. Which means they planned all along to release me from that hellhole and my legs are buckling underneath me as I realize that nothing I could have done would have made a difference because they were only punishing me for my treachery until I could be useful again.

It's too much and too heavy and I think I'll brush my hair out now.

I sit on the toilet, naked still, and fingercomb my dripping hair slowly, thoughtfully. The room is steamy and peaceful, and my heart pounds as I will myself to be grounded here in this small task. It's so strange to have a will, a purpose, something I care enough about to do well. Surviving is a raw talent, and I've lost much of my finesse over the last few years. I need my edge back.

I dress myself in these clothes from another life, which smell slightly stale and also like the cedar eggs I keep in my drawers. Kept. I haven't worn a bra in ages and the clasp is strange in my hands. This is strange. This is surreal. This is what I stayed alive for. Clean clothes and clean hair. I lay on a rickety cot in a room full of sobbing people and remembered what cashmere felt like and how prime rib tasted and the way the sun looked when it rose over the ocean at Hilton Head four summers ago.

I open the door to let some of the steam out while I drain the tub and throw the towels in a pile in the corner. My hair swings wet and cold around my face as I move, and my clothing is so soft it's putting me to sleep. Sleep, that's what I want -- eight hours of sleep undisturbed by screams or nightmares or fluorescent lights in the middle of the night. I'd lie down on the squeaky motel bed out there if I wasn't afraid of what I'd wake up to.

Yes, he's still out there somewhere, and I can primp and groom all I want but he won't go away. I know this man, and he doesn't stay buried for very long.

The bathroom is clean and I am as presentable as I can be. I go to leave and out of old, ingrained habit I look in the mirror.

I wish for the steam I wish for the fog I wish for blindness I wish for whatever will obscure this vision this hideous vision of me used and worn and ruined.

Fuck vanity, this is basic human need here and what I need right now is not to know that my eyes are black smudges and my mouth is a thin cracked line and my hair is dead and I am hollow but somehow I keep moving. They took me out and replaced me with cold fluid, cold movement, cold darkness. I used to glow after a long hot shower and now I pull light into myself and hold it there, frozen dark fire. They took me from me and filled me up with nothing.

I stare at myself, eye to bloodshot eye, for a long sick moment. This is me. Then I wrench myself away and step outside.

He has the motor running and a cigarette burning as I slide into the passenger seat of the cheap sedan. His glance flicks over me, catching on the portions of my anatomy still recognizable as female. I would like to starve him for two years and watch his drooping flesh wither from his bones. He starts the motor and backs out onto the highway.

"Sir," I say, without purpose or meaning, just to stop him from saying anything himself.

"There's a lunch in the back," he rasps out. "A sandwich and iced tea." A coughing fit takes him and concern grips me as we veer slightly out of the fast lane. I turn and see the Subway bag on the seat, so normal I feel hysteria rise in my throat.

I reach for the bag and pull the sandwich out, turkey and sprouts and cheese and onions and mustard. I study it, noticing the grains of wheat in the bread, the whorls of tissue in the meat and the delicate structure of the sprouts. I don't remember the last time I had real solid food, and I take a tiny bite of bread and turkey. Sensation hits me like a brick and before I can stop myself I am stuffing food down my throat so fast I can hardly breathe. When the sandwich is gone I unscrew the cap of the cranberry Snapple and gulp it down in three swigs.

Five minutes later I regret my gluttony as my lunch is reincarnated by the side of the freeway. Cars whizz by as I retch and purge, trying not to hit my shoes. Grass just turning summer brown stretches away in front of me and I could run forever on those fields but I stay bent over here, hands on my knees, waiting for the next heave. I know to be sick now, how to treat my body as if it didn't matter. This is only my mortal coil, the flesh cage I must endure. I take a deep breath and stand up.

I hear a door slam behind me and he crunches on the roadside gravel to my side, offering a bottle of cheap spring water. I take it, careful not to touch his hand, and rinse and spit downwind, away from him.

"I hope you understand why things happened the way they did," he says. "You know how we play this game. Sometimes people get hurt who shouldn't."

I listen to him speaking into the wind.

"I never meant to leave you there as long as I did. I'm not apologizing. But I would like you to know that I did what I could to alleviate some of your tribulations."

I shake my head, staring at those fields, remembering their needles and gloves and filthy minds.

"Like sending your son in with Alex Krycek? Is that the kind of alleviation you're talking about?" I ask bitterly. "Because you could have saved yourself the trouble."

He sighs.

"I think you should also know that Alex Krycek had a good deal of influence over what happened to you in the hospital. He became rather prominent in the group after you were taken, and he seemed to hold a particular grudge against you. He specifically requested some of the tests you underwent."

Tests. As if they could be called that. As if they could be called anything but torture, sick prison camp torture, experiments with people too weak to protest.

"I'm not apologizing," he says again. "But I think you need to understand that there were many factors behind your hospitalization."

Factors like Krycek and I double-crossing each other until we couldn't see straight. Factors like my gamble to save myself, the human race be damned.

I don't want to hear anymore, so I walk towards the car. He grabs my arm and pulls me around with the savagery I always knew he had in him.

"I am dying, Miss Covarrubias," he grinds into my face. "I want to see this finished before I go. Alex Krycek has been in prison in Tunisia for over a year. I need him here. Things are happening fast now, and we must move even faster. You are useful now. Do not forget that."

I look at his eyes and know that I am not the only one who has rotted away and died a slow death and kept living. He has been breathing death since before I was born.

"All right, sir," I say above the roar of cars, the roar of life. The past recedes and the future burns and I say it again. "All right."


End file.
